


Wasted Afternoons

by orphan_account



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5111945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Mercutio, discovering Verona is a long and idle process that demands the dismissal of any assiduous occupation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wasted Afternoons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [privatesnarker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/privatesnarker/gifts).



The Veronese nobility clung to a handful of outdated status symbols, and chief among these tattered peacock feathers was the art of fencing.

Not even Mercutio could escape it forever. The Prince, having taken charge of his education, had insisted on buying him entry into « a most excellent and recommended class ». Mercutio never went, of course. When he felt like making an excuse for it, he said that the sport struck him as overregulated, pompous, and entirely missing the point of a good fight. The truth was rather more simple : he just didn't feel like going.

Eventually, the Prince caught hold of him, which was more difficult than one would imagine, given their shared habitation. Mercutio slept late whereas his uncle was early hard at work, and what's more, Mercutio was rarely in his own bed. But dear uncle always found a way, for he loved to remind Mercutio of all the money being wasted on his account. To think he'd brought him here to initiate him into the ways of the court, to have all the advantages the city could afford him ! Ah, but Mercutio fully appreciated these advantages. He'd never had this much fun in his hometown – perhaps because his mother had been somewhat more successful at reining him in – but that didn't seem to convince the prince that his investment had been worth it. He would not have him fail the class. He arranged for the fencing coach to tutor him privately and bring him back to his classmates' level. Another student would join them to serve as a partner. Mercutio was warned not to expect too much, for his partner was, in the tutor's words, a lazy good-for-nothing well in need of the extra practice.

The day came, and Mercutio, under protest from his uncle, was forced to attend. The tutor was a short man with brows knit so tight that Alexander's sword itself would be powerless to untie them. Mercutio didn't see himself coaxing any kind of reaction out of this one beyond mild irritation and a toilsome punishment, but then again, many things could happen in two hours.

Left in an emptied dining room, Mercutio met the « lazy-good-for-nothing », and indeed, he had the look of a superfluous youth to him. He was a boy of sixteen, showing a grin too wide to be wholly innocent, but manners too clumsy to be devious. He held a hand out, which Mercutio shook.

« I'm Romeo. Will you be joining the class next week ? »

« I joined months ago, I just didn't realize that I was actually supposed to attend, you see. »

« Oh ! So you must be Mercutio ! »

Mercutio took a bow with a flourish of the hand.

« So you've heard of me ! Always glad to meet an admirer. But how do you know me, may I ask ? »

« The coach calls the names out at every lesson, and you were never there. We started speculating, me and my cousin. We thought you might be terribly ill, dying perhaps, or you'd gone off to fight a war abroad, or maybe you were called upon to succeed to a throne. »

« What active imaginations. Alas, no, it wasn't anything like that. I just couldn't be arsed to show up. I'm glad you were thinking of me, though. » A touch of pink coloured Romeo's face. Well, that was easy. Perhaps he wasn't the kind that took teasing well. That didn't bode well for their relationship. Mercutio sat up onto a table disposed by the street window, sitting crosslegged. « So what do we do here ? »

« Uh... we start with a few warm ups, then we're shown a new technique... »

« What kind of techniques ? »

Romeo scratched the back of his neck.

« Uh... I can't say I really pay much attention to that part. There's some swishy moves, and then there's some stabby ones... you see, usually, I just hope the person I'm practicing with knows what to do, and I pick it up along the way. »

Showing remarkable restraint, Mercutio ignored every single innuendo and remained stone faced.

« Sound strategy. Now, you're wasting your Saturday stuck here with me.»

The tutor came back with the last of the equipment, and it was straight to work. They picked up the foils, and Mercutio had to admit, there was something about it something that appealed to the ten year old boy in him, running about the orchards, leading friends into harmless yet very real confrontations. Well, it appealed to him until the teacher devoted the first five minutes of the lesson to teaching him the proper way to hold the weapon. Surely, there couldn't be a hundred ways ? Soon exasperated, Mercutio declared that he already knew very well how to hold his blade, earning himself a backhand to the face with the gesture that accompanied the jest. Well, at least Romeo seemed to find it amusing. He was easy to distract, that one, gaze fixed on the bustle of the street outside the window as the tutor demonstrated the stance. What was he dreaming, Mercutio wondered ? Well, it wasnt like he needed to learn this all over.

Two hours older and no wiser than when they started, they left the building. It turned out Romeo could have used the full revision after all. He was no more gifted than he'd implied, but Mercutio couldn't mock him for that. He was lighter of foot, but that didn't mean he had any more finesse, and in fact, he had far less patience. They stopped in front of the house, and as Romeo was about to walk down the steps, Mercutio shouted :

« Heel first ! »

The boy flinched, turning around with an upset look.

« Don't do that ! I'll start hearing him in my nightmares, now ! »

Mercutio caught up to Romeo, slapping his shoulder and pulling him back by his shirt to keep him from tumbling forwards again.

« Don't let him get to you. In fact, do what I do : just skip out entirely ! »

« If I do, I'll never hear the end of it. »

« No one will care that much, and if they do, trust me, they'll let it go faster than you think. In the end, it's just fencing. »

The sky didn't fall when Romeo skipped out on fencing the next week, and neither did his mother beat him or hate him. In fact, it seemed she barely registered the information when told of his truancy. She merely asked Romeo to confirm the veracity of the teacher's report, and returned to her correspondence. Romeo seemed a little sad while recounting it to Mercutio, God knows why, but it meant that when the following week came, he followed Mercutio about on his rounds. Said rounds usually consisted of meeting friends in the local taverns, maybe finding some company that wasn't too objectionable, lurking about the markets for the rare interesting trinket, and sometimes heading to the public gymnasium and practicing a sport that was actually fun.

The week after that, the illusive cousin appeared, scolding Romeo for leaving him behind in a dull classroom. Mercutio recognized him. Benvolio, a Montague who tagged along older boys, compensating for his age with the quality of his company. His very bouncy, very _loud_ company. Romeo seemed easier around his cousin, more prone to initiate conversation and joke. It endeared them both to Mercutio. After a few afternoons wasted together, he elected them as his entourage of choice, and it seemed as though the sentiment was the mutual.

« I don't think they'll show up. Maybe you got the day wrong.» Romeo was slumped against the heated granite wall, behind the shrubberies. Benvolio had been snoring on his shoulder for the last half hour, a patch of drool staining Romeo's shirt. Understandable. It was the middle of summer and Mercutio would be the first to admit, this was not the most exciting plan he had ever come up with.

« Speak louder, why don't you ? I'm sure it was today. I heard them. »

« Why do you want to catch your uncle with a woman anyway ? What could you possibly gain from that ? Who would even care ? I don't get you, sometimes. »

« It's not about gain ! Dear Romeo, it's all about the principle of the thing. I know he would hate me barging in on a 'private moment', so that's exactly what I'm going to do. And besides, when someone acts like that much of a stick in the mud, you live in wait of the day they make a fool of themselves. »

« So having a 'private meeting' with a lady is foolish, and this... isn't ? »

« I've never made any claims of great wisdom. I just want to embarrass him is all. Jump out of the bushes just when they're getting handsy. Better yet, just catch him mooning over a lady, fussing over his appearance, reciting poetry... »

Mercutio nearly jumped when Romeo popped up next to him with a confused frown not ten inches from his own face.

« What's wrong with poetry ? »

A stunned silence passed, broken only by Benvolio sliding sideways against the wall and landing on the grass with a thud. This was typical. Typical Romeo question. Who even asked that ?

« Well, you have to admit it's a little silly. »

« What, all of poetry ? »

« Well, uh... I don't know ! The whole idea that words can be inherently beautiful, I suppose ! »

« Can't they ? »

« Well, maybe ! Occasionally ! But isn't it vain to even attempt it ? By writing a poem, you're essentially saying : Yes, my thoughts are worthy of being contemplated. It's so pompous. Especially when you're writing about something as common as your latest conquest. »

« I don't think it's pompous. It's a nice sort of gift, to show someone how inspiring they are. »

« 'Here darling, you've inspired the same kind of tripe every other woman in the country has !' I just don't think it's worth anyone's time to pin a meaning on everything, least of all beauty. It's wanky, is what it is. A way to congratulate yourself on your own cleverness.»

« Oh, and you're a complete stranger to that concept, hmm ? »

Mercutio chuckled.

« Well, you have to be one to know one. »

« You mean you've written poems ?! »

« What ? No ! The whole thing's a waste of time. Actually, I'm amending that statement ; Most of the art is cheap shit created to get women into to bed, and all the rest is wank. »

He could sense in the following silence that Romeo was vexed. Again ! Good Lord. Mercutio knew that if he turned to face him, he'd feel guilted into modulating his statement, and hough he may have been hidden in the bushes to fright his uncle like a child, he still had some pride. At least, he thought he did. Romeo left not two minutes after, pretexting a literature lesson with a monotone voice. Mercutio felt a strange tightness in his chest once he was gone. It wasn't his fault ! Wasn't he allowed to be petty or dismissive once in a while, without anyone taking it to heart ? And how could Mercutio have known Romeo was so attached to poetry ?

After dumping Benvolio on the garden bench where the Prince had planned to have his little tryst – dear Benny was a very heavy sleeper, and as a matter of fact, surprisingly heavy in general – he headed up to his room, rummaging through drawers that had been untouched for years. Or months, at the most, if Mercutio was honest.

This would be painful, he thought to himself, but he had to assuage his guilt somehow.

He found Romeo the next day, in the courtyard in front of the Montague estate, half expecting him to still be sulking, but no. He waved at him the moment he saw him. He'd probably forgotten about the argument the moment he left. How silly Mercutio felt then, with the thirty sheets of paper under his arm that he would've sooner burned than let anyone see. He'd come this far, he might as well get it over with. Ah, the lengths one went to for friendship.

« Hey. »

Romeo did not waste any time responding to the salutation, pointing to the bunch Mercutio was holding.

« What are those ? »

« Oh, um. Remember our conversation about bad poetry, yesterday ? »

« ...Yes. Why ? Is that your poetry ?! I knew it ! I knew you'd written some ! »

« Yes, yes, gloat if you like. Might as well get started now, since I doubt you'll let me forget this for a day in my life. Here, take a look. A gallery of horrors from my youth. Or younger youth. »

Romeo took the extended pile of papers, skeptical, but his face changed when he saw the contents of the sheets. Oh dear God, Mercutio thought, do not let him take this seriously ; but he prayed in vain. Romeo started to read through all of them. _All of them_. And all in complete silence, which meant that Mercutio had to stay silent too, wringing his hands like a student artist in critique.

« Oh Christ, that one. » he started over Romeo's shoulder, putting on a jocular tone. « What better way to convey the world weariness of a thirteen year old than forsaking the bounds of m-»

« Sssh !  Let me read !» Romeo snapped, which stunned Mercutio far longer than it should have. That was no good. The day Mercutio's mouth stopped running was the day everything caught up to him.

Romeo's eyes were focused on the papers, utterly void of malice or amusement, considering Mercutio's verbal diarrhoea with all the seriousness one would give a literary classic. It was wrong. He should have been laughing, not even at Mercutio, but with him. Mercutio felt lightheaded. Perhaps it was the heat. Perhaps it was guilt for the offense already forgiven - God forbid ! - but now it seemed to him something altogether needier and more disgusting. He observed that while an easy grin suited Romeo well, unyielding consideration suited him miles better. He sat down slowly next to him, the silence too heavy on his back, weakening his muscles, and repeated variations on the phrase « Oh no. » in his head.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Treat for privatesnarker  
> Marvel as I use fencing and poetry as subjects, and dodge having to portray either of these with the grace of a hot air balloon in a tornado.


End file.
